


Parking Fine

by NattyLineInUmbrellas (BelleVictoire)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleVictoire/pseuds/NattyLineInUmbrellas
Summary: Parking Enforcement Officer Greg Lestrade enjoys his work; fresh air, exercise, and getting to teach the privileged drivers of Westminster a lesson in equality before the law.   One repeat offender, however, has Greg captivated.  Is his interest returned, however?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 30
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't drive ('cause London) or know anything at all about parking or parking enforcement now or in the 90s, so if there are errors just go with it. This is also unbetaed so mea culpa for any mistakes of a textual nature.

While being a parking enforcement officer might not be a glamourous career, on days like today Greg loved his job. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and half of London seemed to have forgotten how to park properly. He hummed a happy snippet of a New Order song to himself as he ripped yet another completed ticket from his pad and tucked it neatly under the wipers of a blue Ford Fiesta parked on a double yellow. Yes, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world. 

Tucking his pad away, Lestrade continued along his route. In a borough as busy as Westminster, pavement pounding really was the best option for spotting infractions. Besides, it kept him fit and gave him time to enjoy the human spectacle that was London. He who is tired of London is tired of life, his Da always used to say. There was always something new and interesting to see, even on streets he had walked a thousand times; the quirky, the ridiculous, and the sublime woven into the fabric of the quotidian. And he got to piss off some prats while he was at it. Not that he was malicious, not in the least. The way Greg saw it, it wasn’t asking much for people to pay attention and abide by the fairly basic guidelines about where you could and could not leave your car. Occasionally people made the conscious decision to disregard those rules, and a ticket was the just and natural result.

Up ahead Greg saw a sleek little Italian job right in front of a hydrant, but cursed as he approached and saw the plates. Bloody diplomats, got away with murder - literally, in some cases, or so he heard. Half of them weren’t even proper diplomats, just hangers on or well connected billionaires, and Whitehall was full of them.

Lestrade carried on, but kept his pad to hand. This stretch of his beat was full of government offices and the parking arrangements complex, with double yellows, varying permit zones, crossings and meters. It was a rare day he didn't spot at least one infraction along here. Greg paid close attention as he came to one of the permit zones, checking each vehicle carefully. About five cars down his diligence was rewarded by an elegant black Jag and he flipped open his pad with relish.

He had just finished noting down the plate number when a posh voice drawled behind him, “Whatever do you think you are doing?”

Greg quirked a smile, but carried on writing the ticket. He quite liked the combative ones, especially when they were upper class and entitled. Gave him a real sense of satisfaction, taking them down a notch, knowing he was right and an infraction was an infraction no matter how many members of the royal family you knew. “Writing you a ticket, mate.”

“I can see that,” Greg could practically hear the eye roll in the Jag owner’s voice. “My enquiry was to ascertain why you were doing so. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my parking.”

Greg was going to enjoy teaching this bloke a lesson, with his supercilious air and fancy words. Ascertain my arse, wanker. “Permit”

“I have a permit. It is even, as per requirements, clearly displayed on the front window.”

“Which I appreciate,” Greg replied, completing the ticket and sticking it to the car.

“Then why, in God's name, have you just adhered that bloody thing to my windscreen?”

“ ’s outta date.”

“Nonsense!” The vehicle's owner barged past to examine the permit in question, and Greg had the impression of a lanky, irate whirlwind of auburn hair and posh tailoring. “ I would never permit such a...oh.”

This, this was a moment to savour, Greg thought smugly. “You were saying?”

The bloke cleared his throat awkwardly. “I do believe I must beg your pardon. You are quite correct. It appears my permit expired yesterday. I confess, I have been a little...distracted of late, and its renewal must have slipped my notice. Very uncharacteristic of me.”

The man, who but a moment before had been all righteous imperiousness, was now hunched in on himself in a picture of dejection. Greg felt more than a little guilty for toying with him.

“Look mate, ‘salright,” he found himself saying. “Happens to everyone.”

The man glanced over his shoulder and Lestrade finally got a proper look at him. And didn’t that just take the biscuit, because the bloke was adorable. A bit younger than Greg, his face full of character with soulful grey eyes and just a hint of pudge softening his angular features. He was also exuding misery like a bad cologne, and Greg was the cause.

“You could contest it, you know.” Lestrade blurted, wanting to cheer him up more than anything. “It's only a day out of date, I’m sure the judge could be talked ‘round.”

“You’re very kind,” the driver said with a soft, sad smile, which was entirely not the sort of smile Greg had been after. “ It isn't of any importance, really. It’s only, well, symptomatic, you might say.” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply. When he opened them again his previously expressive features seemed perfectly calm and emotionless, as if he had slipped on a mask. With cold formality he extended his hand to Greg. “My sincere apologies, Officer…?”

“Lestrade,” he supplied, shaking the proffered hand and feeling a delectable shiver at the brief contact, despite the formality of the gesture.

“Officer Lestrade. My behaviour was uncalled for, and unpardonable. I thank you for your diligence and professionalism.”

“Um. My pleasure?”

The driver nodded once sharply, plucked the ticket off his windscreen, and opened the door to slide behind the wheel with surprising grace.

Greg watched, slightly stunned, as the Jag pulled out into traffic and disappeared round the corner. Sometimes, he thought, shaking himself out of his odd revery, his job was just fucking weird.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next couple of days Lestrade found himself oddly preoccupied by his encounter with the mysterious Jag owner. He thought of it each time he came across that model of Jaguar, or when he checked the validity date on a parking permit. When he was berated by upset drivers, he couldn't help contrasting their abusiveness with his cool imperiousness, their angry embarrassment with his pained humiliation. But for all that the Jag owner was in Lestrade’s thoughts, the last thing he ever expected was to encounter him again.

When Greg first saw the vehicle he assumed that it was just a similar car, wishful thinking turning an illegally parked Jaguar of the same model into that of his mystery motorist. But according to the licence plate - and Lestrade was not going to over analyse how he knew that by heart - it was indeed the same car. 

For a long moment he debated with himself. He could keep walking, pretend he hadn't noticed the infraction. The driver had seemed so cast down the last time and Greg was reluctant to cause him pain, even in absentia. His morality won out, however. As dejected as he had been, the driver hadn’t argued about deserving the ticket or the penalty - indeed, he had praised Greg’s responsibility. So, Greg would do his duty, if reluctantly.

He had just placed the ticket on the windscreen when a familiar voice exclaimed behind him, “Not again! I had that permit renewed.”

“I’d noticed,” Greg replied, turning to find the owner, as delectable as ever, leaning on a stick umbrella with a black trench draped over his arm. 

“But you so enjoyed the last time you felt like writing me another ticket?”

That, Greg conceded, was a little too close to the truth for comfort. “You’re on a single yellow line -”

“And I am fully entitled to park there between the hours of 6 pm and 8 am.”

“It’s 8:45.”

“Bugger.” The driver sighed and ran a hand over his face, but at least he didn’t look as cast down by the ticket as he had before.

“Good night, then?” Greg hedged.

“You could say that. I had matters of an international nature to deal with. Alas, not everyone in the world is on Greenwich time.”

“You a banker, then?”

“No, I am simply the assistant to a minor official in Her Majesty's Government.”

“Oh, what department?” He asked, genuinely interested.

The driver smiled ruefully. “Traffic.”

Greg burst out laughing. “You’re having me on, mate.”

“Alas, no.” 

“Well, that explains a few things. Next time it takes me an hour to get to Chiswick I’ll know who to thank.”

“I live to serve,” the Jag owner replied with a little bow-like nod. He seemed to be fighting a smile, and his eyes danced with the suppressed mirth. Greg longed to ask him his name, get his number, invite him for a drink, for more, but even like this - all charm and puckish warmth - he couldn't chance it. He liked to think he had a pretty good sense about these things, but it wasn’t worth the risk. While flirting on the job wasn’t, strictly speaking, an offense so long as he wasn’t offering to fix anything, all it took was one complaint. 

“I best be getting on, then.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” And there was that kicked puppy look again.

“I’d say I hope to bump into you again, but I don’t think your wallet would appreciate it.”

“Quite.”

“Cheerio, then.”

“Goodbye, Lestrade.”

Greg ignored the little flip his stomach did when the man said his name. He thought to shake his hand again, but that seemed too forward so he opted instead for an awkward little quasi salute that surely must have embarrassed them both before turning on his heel and continuing on his rounds. 

Wonderful last impression, he cursed himself. If there had been anything between them, that would definitely have killed it. No one that clever and refined would be interested in a numpty like him. But Greg had never been one to leave well enough alone. He made it about halfway down the block before he gave in and looked back, hoping against hope that the driver might be gazing longingly after him. The Jag was already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Matters, Jaguar-wise, had gotten worse. Now thoughts of the driver plagued not only Lestrade’s work life, but his off hours, too. Fantasies about fit blokes he met on the job were nothing new, but this was the first time those thoughts had extended beyond the shower stall - not that there weren’t an embarrassing number of those sorts of fantasies as well. Greg found himself conjuring what it would be like sharing sleepy mornings cuddled under the duvet with all that soft, creamy skin. He imagined watching the news together, the Jag owner making insightful commentary between kisses. He made dinner and found himself wondering what the driver liked to eat: whether he liked a spicy curry or objected to garlic bread. Lestrade was, in short, as potty as a teenager about a man whose name he didn't even know, and who he was never going to see again.

It was thus with a whole maelstrom of emotion that he turned the corner on that fateful road one unseasonably warm day and saw the Jaguar parked halfway down. He was even more careful than usual as he worked his way down the street, trying to put off the moment as long as possible. His hopes that for once the vehicle was parked properly were dashed as he approached. Overlooking matters was even more tempting than before, but Greg had his honour, and what were the chances the driver would again appear mid ticket?

He had barely added the date when his worst fears were realised.

“Lestrade! What on earth have I done this time?”

Greg turned at the sound of the owner’s voice and immediately regretted it. In concession to the heat he had his jacket slung jauntily over one shoulder, his lovely, solid figure displayed in all its mouth-watering glory by the trim cut of his waistcoat, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up to display surprisingly muscular forearms which were covered in fine ginger hair and a tempting dusting of freckles.

Greg realised he was gawping, the driver staring at him expectantly, and, with great effort, pulled himself together enough to respond. “You're in the wrong permit zone.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” This time Greg witnessed the eyeroll. “I suppose you've already begun the ticket?”

Greg nodded. 

“May as well carry on then. Mea Culpa.”

Greg did as bid, taking the time to regain his composure, not helped in the least by the owner coming to lean against the car next to him in a most distracting manner. Fit blokes shouldn’t pose with sleek motors: it did things to a fellow.

“Here you are,” he said, passing the completed ticket over directly.

“My thanks. I look forward to swelling the municipal coffers by, ooh, £90.”

Greg couldn’t help a derisive snort. “That's pocket change to you.”

“You mistake me,” the driver protested urgently. “I don’t begrudge the money. I am in the wrong, and the council can certainly make good use of the funds. It is only that I can imagine far more enjoyable ways to make use of £90.”

The last was said with such a lascivious bent that Greg found his trousers uncomfortably tight all of a sudden. That, he thought, was a come-on if ever he heard one, and Greg knew come-ons.

“That so?” he drawled, relaxing against the car as well, a bit of a leer tugging at his lips. “I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on the matter. I don’t imagine you mean double-glazing.”

“Hardly,” replied the Jag owner, stretching the first syllable out in a manner that should not have been that attractive. “Tell me, Officer Lestrade, have you ever been to Bibendum?”

Greg was prevented from replying by a shrill ringing, and he watched in amazement as the bloke scrabbled to pull a mobile telephone from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He glanced at the screen and swore loudly before answering. 

Greg endeavoured to politely ignore the urgent conversation his motorist was having with whoever was on the other end of the line, but it was clearly not good news. He rang off and held the phone to his forehead for a moment, eyes closed, lost in his own thoughts

“I....is everything alright?” he ventured anxiously.

The ginger shook his head, “I must go, Lestrade, I, I must - Forgive me” he muttered, and with that cryptic pronouncement yanked open the driver’s side door, jostling Greg out of the way. The car door slammed and he barely had enough time to step back to safety on the pavement before the Jag pulled swiftly away with a screech of tyres, and disappeared round the corner.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg spent the rest of the day in a tizzy. Whatever regret he felt that he might have missed his chance with the Jag owner was outweighed by worry for whatever crisis had dragged him away and put such an expression of concern on his elegant face. 

By the end of his shift all Greg wanted to do was go home and wallow in his disappointment, but he was cornered at the station by his mate Charlie who reminded him that Greg owed him a favour and begged him to cover his shift the next morning. So, instead of an evening indulging in a pint or six while he wept over missed chances and a day off spent nursing a hangover, it was home for a quick kip and then right back in for a pre-dawn shift.

Charlie’s usual beat was over by Westminster Bridge and, as much as Greg would prefer to be sound asleep at this time of the morning, there was something to be said for wandering deserted streets past the Abbey and Parliament as they glowed in the buttery dawn light. Since the area was mostly government offices and parking strictly limited for reasons of national security there were few cars parked this early, let alone malefactors to ticket, so Greg could savour the rare peace in such a usually busy part of the city. 

Big Ben was just chiming quarter to six as he turned into Little George street and caught sight of a very familiar car stopped crookedly across the tiny roadway as if it had been hastily wrenched off Great George street and thrown into park. Through the windscreen Greg could just make out a distinctive red-haired form slouched over the steering wheel. His heart in his throat Lestrade approached the vehicle and tapped on the window, startling the driver who whipped up his head. The man was in rough shape; his usually perfectly coiffed hair was mussed, his pristine suit wrinkled and tie askew, and his eyes were shadowed and red rimmed. 

Greg motioned for him to lower the window and he hastened to oblige. “Lestrade,” he breathed, and it was such a hollow sound, so different to his usual confident tone, that Greg felt it like a physical blow. “Do forgive me, I shall move in a moment-”

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” While an anxious scan of the driver’s form didn’t reveal any obvious injuries, Greg’s mind couldn’t help filling in a myriad of unseen hurts.

“I am quite well, I assure you,” the motorist insisted with badly feigned bravado.

“Won’t you tell me what’s going on?” Greg pleaded. “I’d like to help, if I can.”

“It is merely a small family matter that is proving somewhat trying. While I thank you for your concern, it is unnecessary.”

In Greg’s experience, family matters could be the most damaging of all and whatever the bloke was dealing with looked to be a corker. But much as Greg wanted to share the burden, to comfort him and bring back the bloke’s smile, he fought down the urge to press in deference to the man’s reticence.

Respecting the fellow’s privacy didn’t mean he couldn’t help, however, and, as the hour began to strike, Greg was struck with an idea.

“Look, you are clearly in no fit state to drive. I’m due a break - let me drive you home or wherever.” 

The redhead gawped at him, a blush pinking his cheeks. “That is...very kind. It has been a very long night; you are, perhaps, correct that I am somewhat too distracted to be driving.”

“Right then; one chauffeur, coming up.” Greg swung open the driver’s side door and gave a cheeky little bow as the motorist stepped from the vehicle, then slid quickly into his place. “Where to?” he asked as the fellow buckled himself into the passenger seat. Lestrade was not entirely surprised to be directed towards Kensington. Greg couldn’t prevent himself casting frequent worried glances in his passenger’s direction, but the man kept his gaze firmly out the left-hand window. Aside from the occasional instruction, they drove in silence until Greg was pulling up in front of a neat little mews house tucked off of Queen’s Gate. 

When he parked, Greg expected the man would exit the car immediately and dismiss him without a backward glance, but he only acknowledged Greg’s redundant announcement of their arrival with a distracted hum and made no move to leave. Instead they sat there for several long minutes, Greg listening to the distant sound of traffic as the city began to wake. He was startled from his own reverie when his companion began to speak in a hushed voice befitting this moment seemingly apart from time.

“It’s my brother, you see. Since he began university he has developed something of a problem, it seems. We had thought it was simple experimentation - the follies of youth - and that he would come to his senses in due course. The situation, however, is graver than we had realized; he has become profoundly addicted to cocaine and opioids. I was with him all last night. In the hospital.”

Greg sucked in a gasping breath. “The phone call.”

“Yes. He overdosed. He collapsed in Waterloo station and was rushed to St. Thomas’. For a time it was uncertain if he would recover.”

Greg acted in the only way he could and, without thinking, he wrapped his companion tightly in his arms. The man tensed for an instant, but sank almost immediately into the embrace, tucking his head into the crook of Greg’s neck as if it had always belonged there. Dampness on his collar and tremors beneath his hand told him that the man had begun to weep. Softly Greg pressed a kiss into his hair, and murmured soothing nonsense as he smoothed a comforting hand back and forth across his back. Gradually the tremors subsided, and the fellow pulled back enough to look up into Greg’s face, though not enough to break Greg’s careful hold. 

He sniffed and swiped at his damp, reddened eyes. “Lestrade, forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, Sweetheart. And it’s Greg. Call me Greg.” 

“Gregory,” the man whispered with a meltingly fond look.

“And do I get to know your name?”

“Oh! Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. Though,” he admitted, with a shy smile,“I rather like Sweetheart.”

“Well then, Sweetheart. I think you need a cup of tea, and some sleep, and I promise things will seem better when you awake.”

Beaming, Mycroft shifted up and pressed his lips to Greg’s in a chaste kiss. “They already do.”

🚫

Greg jogged down the front steps of the station, his shift done at last and a whole weekend stretching out before him. At the bottom of the stairs a sleek black Jaguar waited and he smiled as the door opened and the driver stepped out.

“This your vehicle, Sir?” Lestrade demanded as the man leant against the car, his lanky body shown off to perfection in a tailored pinstripe suit with coordinating cobalt tie and pocket square.

“Is there a problem, officer?” the driver asked innocently.

“I’m afraid you are parked on a double yellow.”

“Oh dear! I was only waiting for my boyfriend, you see. He’ll be terribly upset if I get another ticket - I’ve gotten quite a few of late.” The man pushed off the car and slunk towards Lestrade, pressing close and running a teasing finger along his regulation tie. He gazed coyly up through his auburn lashes and asked breathily: “Is there perhaps some way I could persuade you to look the other way?”

“I think I could be convinced, this once,” Greg growled as his arms tightened around his boyfriend and he pulled him in for a rather filthy kiss. 

🚫

“...but this is actually a no stopping zone.”  
“For fuck's sake.”


End file.
